


How can we get along

by Thatkindoffangirl



Series: Metal Gear Solid POV challenge [7]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Breathplay, Forced Crossdressing, Frottage, M/M, the fanfictionification of 'just shut up and fuck you two'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 18:32:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2239071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thatkindoffangirl/pseuds/Thatkindoffangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is how all their discussions end, no matter the amount of denial they share, no matter how they won’t talk about it with anyone, not even between themselves. It’s a way like any other, much more productive than regular trips to the infirmary, looking for stitches and begging the nurses not to tell John about their umpteenth fight. They tell themselves they don't need it, and yet they have never been as calm. Even John has noticed, and God knows if that’s not a feat in itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How can we get along

**Author's Note:**

> A small disclaimer: I understand that some people might consider the idea of crossdressing as part of humiliation play transphobic and/or demeaning to crossdresser. Personally, I don't consider the idea of a man in makeup and high heels humiliating at all. I find that people have the right to dress in the way they feel belongs to them, and that there is nothing humiliating in choosing clothes usually assigned to a different gender. The very idea of gendered clothing does not make sense.
> 
> That said, I believe that in 1984, on a offshore plant in the middle of the ocean, Ocelot would have gotten a kick out of forcing Kaz to dress as a maid. Humiliation is never in the act itself, but in the way the act is perceived.

“I thought you didn’t like women,” Kaz says, and Ocelot can’t help but laugh.

There is sweat glistening on their foreheads, sticking hair to their faces and clothes to their bodies. Ocelot’s pants are clinging to his own legs, tight and yet still loose when compared to the dress he’s forced Kaz to wear. It’s a cheap maid outfit, mail-ordered, and way too tight for the built body of a soldier. Its fabric, sleek but thin, clinches around Kaz's chest, coils on his thighs like plastic wrap, tugging the hair along their length each time Ocelot adjusts on top of Kaz to straddle the man's ass flatter on the chair.

"You’re wrong," Ocelot says. He forces Kaz’s chin up, raises the tube of lipstick to his lips. His hold is unsteady as it has never been with guns. “It’s not women I don’t like." He clenches his grip tighter. "It's people."

Kaz chuckles. “ _People_?” he says. “What ab—"

He almost bites his tongue when Ocelot slams his jaw shut.

The air is dense; breathing is hard. Ocelot has even taken his light, summer scarf off his neck, leaving his throat more exposed than he is comfortable with. He doesn’t like being naked, not for less than a matter of life or death. Rarely sex. Tying up Kaz is neither.

He finds no pleasure in it. There’s satisfaction, sure — in the slow dragging motion of the lipstick across Kaz’s mouth, in the scarf tying his wrist so tight to the chair that his skin turns red— and yet there’s no joy, especially when he has dropped Kaz’s crutches on the opposite side of the room, when the heels at his feets make it impossible for a man with one leg to balance himself up. There is no thrill in being cruel to prisoners. To Ocelot, that's just routine.

“What about—” Kaz says again as soon as the lipstick leaves his lips. He jumps like an over-excited child at the opportunity to retort, yet stops as his expression morphs into a disgusted look; he smacks his lips, rubbing them together over and over again, looking offended at their stickiness.

“What about him?” he manages to finish eventually, while Ocelot crosses his feet behind the chair and leans back to admire his work. The contour of the lips pops heavily against Kaz's face, the red clashing with his light features. Still, he is smirking. “He is one of those 'people' too, and you’re overly fond, to say the least.”

“I respect him,” Ocelot says. A smudge of lipstick on Kaz’s chin marks the place where his hand trembled, too much for his liking. He leans in to clean it away with his thumb, pressing against Kaz’s face with more strength than necessary. "I sure don’t like him enough to play maid for him."

Kaz growls. He twists his head away. “Did you forget why I’m here?” he asks.

He doesn't get an answer. Ocelot grins, shrugs, anchors his feet to the chair; then, he reaches down for the makeup bag lying on the floor. Kaz's glare follows him, never leaves his back as he rummages in the leather pouch, spilling eyeliner pencils all over the floor.

They have no idea whose bag it is, to whom it all belongs to. Neither of them bothered to check. When they broke in the nurses’ locker room, Ocelot did nothing but grab the first one he found, while Kaz (whose missing leg didn’t allow him to be as fast, but whose reputation was enough to make most women stir in the other direction) was in charge of keeping lookout outside.

When Ocelot heaves himself up again, there is a small, round case tucked in his palm. He holds it as if he’s afraid it’ll come alive to bite him, mystified, frowning as he runs his fingertips on the pinkish surface. His red gloves tint with a lighter shade; golden specks are sparkling all across the fabric. He rubs his fingers together, absentmindedly biting his own lips.

“It’s a blush, you moron,” Kaz tells him eventually. “You need some sort of brush.”

Without flinching, Ocelot buries his head in the bag again.

It would be easy to throw back an answer —  he thinks as he once more wades through the pile of junk — to sneak in a snarky comment about Kaz’s _peculiar_ knowledge of makeup; yet, he already knows what this answer would bring, the kind of gibe he’d get in return. Knowing makeup is no big feat for Kaz, not when he, _unlike Ocelot_ , does get close enough to women to see them wear it.

“I never forget when you lose a bet,” Ocelot says instead as he rises once again, reprising the conversation as if it had never stopped. “Still,—” He sweeps the bristles over the blush, then raises it to the light; when he looks down for confirmation, Kaz just shrugs at him. “—I didn’t think you’d be so eager to honor your promise.”

Blush puffs around them as soon as the brush lands on Kaz’s cheek. It clogs Ocelot’s nose, waters his eyes. It takes all his concentration not to cough.

“Japanese people have honor, Ocelot,” Kaz answers, his voice choked. “Unlike _Russians_.”

Ocelot laughs. When he dabs the brush over the powder again, he takes care in avoiding any excess.

“It’s not Russians that lack honor, Kaz,” he says. “Just me.”

Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, Kaz turns his other cheek, offering easy access to it. Before he can comment, however, Ocelot grabs his chin and twists his neck even further to the side. “Honor is a volatile concept, Kaz,” he says, keeping Kaz's head steady despite his protests. “It has no fixed meaning. At its best, it gets you killed; at its worst, you end up whoring for your commander’s birthday.”

Kaz chuckles. It's a stifled laugh, his throat twisted uncomfortably. “You call ‘wearing a dress’ _whoring_?” With a groan, he bends his now free neck side to side to stretch the muscles. Then he raises his voice, making sure that Ocelot can hear him clearly even with his head down in the bag again. “I’ve never seen you in a skirt, Ocelot, and yet if someone here is _whoring_ —”

He stops in his tracks when Ocelot appears again in front of him, a grin plastered on his face.

“ _Eyeshadow_ ,” Ocelot mouths. His smile widens even further when Kaz flinches back.

“T— There is no need for that, you know?”  Kaz says, his hesitation visible even with his eyes hidden.  “I can still wear sunglasses; women wear sunglasses — even you know that, don’t you?”

“Some women do.” Ocelot nods. “Feeling like one now?”

He doesn’t give Kaz time to answer before snatching the aviators from his nose, and with a growl, Kaz launches himself after them, the scarf holding back his hand but his teeth acting in its place to try and bite his glasses out of Ocelot’s hands.  

“Give them back!” he roars, but Ocelot is already leaning back, out of reach, lowering their frame on his face with a satisfied smirk.

It’s hard for Ocelot to make out particulars through the colored lenses, but even so there is no mistaking that Kaz’s gaze, no matter how angry and focused on him, is suddenly avoidant, evasive. A drop of sweat runs down his nose, past the fine hair on his face to his lips now drawn in a straight line. He doubts the heat has anything to do with it.

“I could if you beg,” Ocelot says, twisting his lips in a smirk. “Or is begging not included in your _ninja honor code_?

“It’s _samurai_ you’re thinking of, fucking makeshift cowboy!” Kaz bares his teeth again, glaring at Ocelot’s throat, and he thrusts his hips to the side.The chair lifts itself from the floor, then falls back down with a dull thud. “Give them back!” he shouts. More thrusting. The chair shakes again. There’s a screeching sound of wood about to cede. Ocelot laughs.

“Stop acting like a horse, Kaz," he says, his voice broken by the effort to balance himself on top of him. "You know—” Ocelot laughs again. The chair wobbles, this time almost toppling to the side. “—what they do to horses who lose their le—”

His voice dies as one of the chair legs cracks, as he screams and falls backward, his hands grabbing the air where Kaz’s shoulders were just a moment before; he laughs, instead, as they tumble to the ground together, their bodies tangling with each other, then rolling apart as the impact bounces them both in different directions.

Suddenly, everything is quiet. It takes a while for them both to remember what’s happened.

Ocelot is the first one to rise; he’s the only one who can. Kaz’s wrist is still tied to the toppled-down chair, with no other arm for him to push himself into a more comfortable position. His elbow is bent unnaturally, not enough to be broken, but enough for it to be painful. He chuckles at the view, then takes his time to help him.

Slowly, Ocelot pats along his body, smoothes the creases of his own clothes; then, he checks for any sign of injuries, carefully stretching his joints to unknot his muscles. His body is aching. His head is light. He’s breathing deeply, the adrenaline from the fall still tingling through his veins.

"Was it worth it?" he laughs. He laughs even harder when Kaz curses back, then again when he growls as Ocelot rolls him upward and straddles him flat again, this time to the ground.

"Get the fuck off me!" Kaz says, yanking his head forward to do the deed himself. The headdress on his head slips backward, and Ocelot catches it a second before it hits the ground. His fingers ruffle the frills with faked expertise.They barely dodge Kaz’s teeth.

"I highly respect these _self-destructive_ endeavours,” Ocelot laughs. He checks for traces of Kaz’s saliva on his fingers, humming satisfied when none comes up. Then, he takes off the sunglasses, slowly, gloating as Kaz swallows in anticipation. He turns them around, inspecting them for any sign of damage before, in an even slower fashion, he places them back on Kaz's face, purposely skewed. “Still,"  he says. "I hope you realize there’s no getting back up unless I help you."

“You can stick your help up your ass!” Kaz says. Ocelot tut-tuts at his swearing. "I'd rather spend the rest of my life crawling on the floor than—"

His voice cracks, words morphing into a growl as Ocelot's face whisks toward his, and the growl turns into a moan when his lips seize the nape of Kaz’s neck. He curses, swears at him again, and yet his free shoulder acts as if the arm was still there, ready to grab Ocelot’s hair and press his mouth further into his skin, begging for his teeth to sink into him. Nevertheless, Ocelot obliges, almost reading his thoughts. Kaz moans against his mouth, his hips pushing upward against his ass. The tensing shaft of his cock nudges against the fold of his skirt, then rubs against the bottom of Ocelot's crotch.

This is how all their discussions end, no matter the amount of denial they share, no matter how they won’t talk about it with anyone, not even between themselves. It’s a way like any other, much more productive than regular trips to the infirmary, looking for stitches and begging the nurses not to tell John about their umpteenth fight. They tell themselves they don't need it, and yet they have never been as calm. Even John has noticed, and God knows if that’s not a feat in itself—

“Don’t leave marks,” Kaz says. His voice snaps Ocelot out of his thoughts.

He thanks him by biting deeper, tasting sweat as he sucks and chuckles against his jugular.

“Tell everyone it was one of your girls,” he whispers, grinding against the fabric tangled around Kaz’s erection, his nose buried in Kaz’s hair. He brings one hand down his chest, pinches his nipples hard enough to make him squirm; then, he moves his fingers over his shoulder, tracing the contour of his missing arm. “Isn’t that what you always do?”

Kaz sneers. “Free me—” he says. He twists his elbow around, trying to force his wrist out of the knotted scarf, his neck following in the desperate effort of pushing Ocelot away, but he only manages to sink his teeth in further.

“Stop fighting, you'll ruin your makeup,” Ocelot says, pressing his hand on Kaz’s face to push himself above him. Kaz squirms harder, his knees hitting him on the back, each hit echoing through his lungs like a drum. Still, he doesn’t respond. Instead, he lifts his hands up, opens his palm and smiles. He smiles even further when Kaz’s jaw drops open.

“Just relax, Kaz,” he says. “I’ll take care of you.”

He doesn’t expect Kaz to trust him. They both know that it’s never going to work, that anything Ocelot does it’s either for him or for Snake, not for anyone else, not even for Kaz. If sex has changed their relationship, neither of them ever expected it to be in that way.

Yet, after pondering his choice for less than a minute, Kaz’s body relaxes. Nodding, he rests his head back and allows Ocelot easy access to his neck again, all prudence thrown to the wind. Not that he’s ever had any, not when it comes to sex, and as Ocelot goes down on him again, he knows that it’s going to get him killed one day — maybe, if it ever comes to it, he will be the one doing it that way.

His lips firmly adjusted on Kaz’s neck again, he ruffles the skirt of his dress up his legs, exposing Kaz's lightly tanned thighs. A white pair of frilly panties, also stolen from some nurse's locker, glow white against his skin. They barely have enough fabric to contain Kaz's cock, whose head pushes and stretches the cotton as if trying to break free. A smear of precum runs down the length of his erection, and Ocelot follows it with the tip of his index before moving his crotch forward to plant their groins together again.

Slowly, he thrusts his hips forward, nibbles on Kaz's neck then nibbles again; with every bite, Kaz moans, grinds faster against him, their pace increasing, his tied hand opening and closing in the desperate effort of getting at least some blood to flow in it again.

“Please,” he whispers against Ocelot’s hair and, without answering, Ocelot leans forward to undo the knot. Kaz’s fingers, finally free, dash to plant themselves in Ocelot’s neck, his well-kept nails biting so deep they almost draw blood.

When Ocelot moans, it’s Kaz’s turn to laugh loudly in his ear, scratching him even deeper.

“Going to come in your pants again?” he asks, then laughs when, with a roar, Ocelot pushes Kaz’s face on the floor, grabbing his throat, shifting the weight on his hand as he lifts himself above him.

Kaz sputters and laughs against his palm, still grinding their erections together. His hand, fallen off Ocelot’s neck, reaches for his wrist instead. He drags his nails along Ocelot’s forearm, tracing the line of his muscles, sinking into the veins. Making sure it hurts.

Ocelot bites his lips, swallows his moans. He presses his hips deeper, rubbing Kaz’s cock with his ass, trying to get him to come faster. His hand crushes Kaz's neck down with the weight of his whole body, vibrates with the intensity of Kaz's movements. Kaz's eyes roll back in his skull. His mouth trembles with moans he doesn’t have air to breathe, then his orgasm hits him. Cum drips all over his panties. When Ocelot releases him, he gasps for air.

Their hair is glued to their foreheads. Kaz’s lips are parted, and the weight of Ocelot’s head presses on his lungs as they heave up and down; in his ragged, exhausted breathing, air fills him so fast that he finds himself wailing in pain. His head throbs. Everything floats.

“It’s time,” Ocelot says eventually, tossing his head up, apparently unphased by the still-throbbing erection in his pants. “The party will start any minute.” He pats on his knees as he hauls himself up. “The _main attraction_ can’t be late.”

Kaz groans at him, his voice still weak. “Give me a f’cking second,” he says. He drags his hand along his cum-drenched panties, pulling lightly on their rim. “And get me another pair of these things. I can’t go meet the others like this.”

“ _Another pair_?” Ocelot laughs. “I’m sorry, Kaz, I didn't get more. That’s the only pair we have.”

 


End file.
